


Chords of a Synesthete

by FlipSpring



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Broken Ending, Gen, Synesthesia, Unsettling, Weird Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-10
Updated: 2012-10-10
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:21:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlipSpring/pseuds/FlipSpring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Her words are like grass and dew and velvet when she parts her lips and says, sugar fangs gleaming,</em><br/>"Welcome to the corpse party, miss Terezi Pyrope."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chords of a Synesthete

I come down the stares, one foot at a time sinking into the hard glare of their eyes, boots in the vision, shattered glasses for the blind.  
If I hold my breath in my lungs like cupped water then everything is dark, and the few wispy strands of burnt sugar are flown like kites on the wind.  
Open my eyes and let out a breath as my shoe hits the last stair with an echoing _click_ ; a gun being cocked with a trembling thumb.  
There's someone down here plucking the strings, high resonating twangs of a gallows knot being tested, candy red chains glowing in the dark.

The shining red of her wings hits my vision with a deep inhalation, and she doesn't look up, hums like summer winds as she kneels over a zither,  
Spider fingers dancing on the strings with the same sweet sliver shine of acid rain in the spring, twirling leaves, and bubbles blown by sinking fish.  
 _"Hello there, Terezi,"_ she says, and plucks another discordant note that shifts the floor out from under me a little and tastes like sour lemons.  
I sway imperceptibly on the imperceptible air.

"Aradia?" The name is plumes of smoke in my mouth, a cancer stick cigarette with dead ashes dusting to the ground.  
She giggles like the sound of fire, plucks more notes on the puppet strings, and the colors of them spread around her on the licorice ink floor,  
Swirls and jagged shapes that glow and pool in the blood hues of our friends, that sing a quiet dying chorus to match her music.  
There's a glow to those wings of hers, a wispy glow like incense smoke, infusing sweet raspberry everywhere, distorting the painting of the music.

I watch with my ears as she keeps playing, listen to the appleberry sparks written in the air at each flick of two fingers,  
The blueberry swirls that drip down to the floor when she pulls strings with four tips of both hands,  
The minty forest filaments that bloom over her head like alien foliage when she strokes the instrument in that harmonic chord,  
The sweetest mouthwatering red that curves in puddles around her on the floor when she drags one hand across the strings in a loving stroke.

Her words are like grass and dew and velvet when she parts her lips and says, sugar fangs gleaming,  
"Welcome to the corpse party, miss Terezi Pyrope."  
My name sounds like swords and gears the way she says it, and I turn, staring at the walls, where suddenly,  
My friends are speared, torn, stabbed in a breathing wrekage of smells, songs, sights, their faces drained to the same ghastly color as bitter ash.

Aradia plays her music, a raincloud smile on her face, drawing their blood in the air with each note,  
And my feet no longer touch the floor because I've got my hands around my neck and the rope smells like blood and summer sunlight.  
I close my eyes, and the last thing I see is the quiet chord she plays with four fingers and a


End file.
